


if there's nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire

by poziomeczka



Category: The Eagle (2011) RPF
Genre: M/M, awful, it needs a fucking sequel just to be put out of it's misery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/pseuds/poziomeczka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one of my first ever fics. QUITE POSSIBLY THE MOST AWFUL THING EVER WRITTEN IN THE HISTORY OF ENGLISH VERNACULAR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if there's nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire

He should have noticed it earlier, Channing berates himself with that slim, slight part of his brain that still has the remains of blood in it. He should have noticed he thinks. Admittedly, he has never been particularly sharp in those matters as Jenna frequently told him. She has never really been the one to hesitate in pointing out when he was being extremely dim about one thing or other. He loved her for that. 

 

It's hard to think with all that glorious bare skin moving before him and his back feels sore and like it might snap if Jamie keeps on going like this. But Channing knows that were he to stop he would probably die from a different affliction altogether. 

 

He should have noticed earlier

 

But he's so used to being pushed into cubicles, alleyways, walls and not-at-all-as-abandoned-as-they-look hallways, that it's hardly anything out of the ordinary.   
He expected as much, and god knowing, knowing that Jamie was about to shove him into the staff bathroom, his hand splayed urgently so urgently over Channing's broad chest, it was enough. Those lust-heavy seconds when he knew that god, god any moment now it was going to happen. Like seeing a train wreck and not being able to look away. The anticipation of it, of that glint in Jamie's cobalt eyes, a glimpse of something predatory and primal, bone-deep ancient and feral. That was enough to make him stiff. 

 

Channing might have made the word up, but he wasn't lying when he told the interviewer that Jamie was a "go'er". He always maneuvered him with startling efficiency, all that compact strength and speed fused in a single-minded purpose; Jamie's quick hands and mouth everywhere on him all at once. And who was Channing to defend himself against that?

 

He always joked that it was a bit like being manhandled by an extremely crafty otter.  
And a rather frisky one too. 

 

There's something about public places, Channing swears---  
However, no matter how insistent Jamie is, and well he's pretty insistent, there's always an amused smile or a fondly exasperated eyeroll.

 

It's different this time somehow, more raw, more violent. It happens so fast that before Channing can question it, much less actually have a say in what is happening to him, Jamie's straddling his lap, Channing's cock buried deep within his arse and oh god it has to hurt him, it has to, and oh god---  
He's. He's sleek. He's sleek inside.   
He planned this all along, the little bastard.   
And just the mental picture of Jamie, in his hotel room, fucking himself open---

 

 

Jamie's eyes are hooded and unreadable and he doesn't say a word between his shallow pants.   
He has always been a mouthy fuck. His wonderful little mouth running ahead of him, demanding and directing, accent growing thicker as he loses himself, telling Channing to fucking do it already that he needs yes and more and this and don't you dare slow down you son-of-a-bitch---

 

But not this time. No.

 

It's tight and so good and Jamie looks magnificent and terrifying, like a sea-storm. He throws his head back, exposing the long column of his throat, his shirt open as his hands palm at the painted wood on the each side of the cubicle. His ribs move under his skin as he viciously slams himself down onto Channing cock.

 

He looks like some pagan god lost in a ritual to his own worship. Powerless against the frenzy.  
Channing's large hands rest tightly on Jamie's hips, thumbs almost meeting and he will never, never get tired of it. Of how small and perfect Jamie is around him, how he could enclose him whole and keep him there. Cocooned in his arms and body. 

 

Jenna's compact and lithe, not unlike Jamie but it's never like this with her. Because it's never a fight. And with Jamie it's always a fight. Always.

 

It's never certain, for even when it is he'll never know when Jamie will run. And it excites him and scares him and excites him in equal measure. 

 

There's something borderline suicidal about the way Jamie rides him, like he almost wishes he could stab himself through.

 

And it's so good and it hurts just a little and Channing thinks he could come just from this and his hands move up to caress those ribs and chest and Jamie's skin is smooth and rough and hot all at once and loves it he loves it and then something shifts.

 

Jamie's got him by the hair, looking straight at him, twisting his neck in a slightly awkward angle and Channing is hit by an odd deja vu from their days on the set. And Jamie looks at him, eyes burning. 

 

"Do. Not. Touch. Me"


End file.
